


Remember?

by allfireandbrimstone



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Angst, Fake AH Crew, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-07-12 03:21:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7083118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allfireandbrimstone/pseuds/allfireandbrimstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Ryan misses Ray after a year of the later being gone. Hurt feelings and first person lie inside.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remember?

Remember when we met? It was night, in the subway train flying underground. You asked me to make room for you; there was no space left in the compartment. Reluctantly, I shifted over and you sat down, pink gaming device in hand and a purple hood up over your head. I asked what you were playing, and I swore I made a mistake by the way you rambled on and on, all that trivia about the smallest of things spewing from your mouth.

When my stop came, you stood up and left right behind me. We didn’t part with many words. “Nice to meet you.” “You too.” And I thought that was the end of it, just another stranger, just a few words of small talk and a one-off conversation. I walked home with the memory of the subtle smile you wore as you spoke, like you clearly knew something I didn’t or I was the butt end of some inside joke.

After stepping through my front door, I shrugged off my jacket and tried to empty my pockets. It was only then that I realized my phone was missing. Was it on the subway? Where did I drop it? Whatever the answer was, I knew it would be a lost cause finding it, especially in this crooked town where the “finders keepers” rule dominates. “I’ll replace it,” I mumbled in the silence of my apartment, “tomorrow.”

Remember knocking on my door? I woke up the following morning to the sound of your hand hitting the wood. I wonder what I looked like when I opened the door and found you standing there, with my phone in your hand and that same smirk from the day before across your lips.

“How’d you find me?” I asked.

“You tell me, Ryan. We can talk about it over coffee.” Just by saying my name, something I kept from you when we first met, I knew you’d dug through my phone. I had no clue what you saw, how much, what you knew. I could only nod my head and follow your lead to a nearby coffee shop.

You put so much sugar in your coffee, cream too. Why I remember, I don’t know, but I suppose that’s how you’ve always taken it. Like our short walk to the cafe, you directed the conversation how you pleased. It wasn’t like I had much of a choice, with you knowing about my line of work and its less than legal nature. I answered your questions diligently- how long I’d been in town, recent employers, what I do in my free time. You reveled in being the one in control, but I hated the loss of that position; I needed it and yet, there I was, squirming in my seat.

Remember when I relaxed? It was when you opened up about yourself. You… well, you know what you did for a living. Completely illegal, but god if it didn’t pay well. You have good reflexes, reaction times, and a great eye. You offered me a job; you needed someone else for it, an extra set of eyes and another weapon to make sure you didn’t get caught. In need of a little extra cash, I agreed albeit with some hesitation.

The day of the hit came around. We met up where we’d agreed to back at the cafe. Quickly and quietly, we went over the plan once more; you explained as you cleaned your rifle while I listened carefully. We worked so well together, like a well-oiled machine, pistons firing away and the gears churning without stopping or halting. Even with working on my own for a few years, I never worked on a job that went so perfectly, so flawless and according to plan.

We didn’t even need to rush on our getaway; we were that good and that clear of the police. Now that I think back, we could have _strolled_ along the street, avoiding the alleys we took, and smiled to any cop cars driving towards us. Afterwards, we talked more, or rather, you talked more and I nodded or gave a quick smile. You know I don’t talk much- all ears and few words. It’s something not even you could change.

Remember what happened next? The first job became another, and another, and another. Soon I _volunteered_ to help you- I didn’t even care about the money- and somewhere down the line we didn’t solely spend time together at work. We went to cafes or the movies or just up to the roof of some building, watching planes or helicopters fly overhead and talk about whatever came to our minds while we lay on our backs and smiled.

I got more comfortable with you.  It was a feeling I never really had with anyone else. No one ever got that close, not that I let them, but with you it felt so _natural_. So much so that I didn’t realize what was happening, that you were becoming my friend, that eventually I wanted us to be more than that. You realized what I was feeling and struggling with long before I could recognize it for what it was.

Of course, you’re more in tune with people. You took the proverbial steering wheel, leading our relationship from just being friends to… well… more than that. One night, after a robbing the Vangelico’s Jewelry store, we were at your apartment, tidy, clean, and warm like you always kept it. You kissed me first. It wasn’t tentative or uncertain; somehow you knew what you were getting yourself into. That smug smile was on your lips, and it touched your brown eyes with this sort of glow, this _warmth_.

Remember when I kissed back? I’m sure it was awkward and stiff; I hadn’t been in a relationship in a while, and never in one that was lasting or of substance. You chuckled quietly when we pulled apart.

“About time,” you teased.

“Then you should have kissed me sooner,” I shot back. If we weren’t inseparable before, then we sure as hell were after that. When one of us was hired, both were on the job, ready to go, weapons loaded. We were a packaged deal, and I grew to like it like that. Before you, there was no way I would have spent time so regularly with another person, but of course, you changed my stance on existing alone. You changed a lot about me.

I got soft. You made me vulnerable.

Remember when people learned we were an item? Word spreads quickly in a city built on rumors and backstabbing and playing dirty. At first, I was worried about it, but you assured me otherwise. “Like anyone can stop us, Ryan,” you said one sleepless night, lying in bed with a lamp illuminating the room. “We can handle anything thrown at us, and you know that.” I did, and that knowledge calmed me down as I brushed those dark curls of coarse hair out of your eyes.

I believed you and I believed in the both of us, and maybe that’s where I went wrong. Maybe that’s where I screwed up, not being skeptical or cautious. I let my guard down.

You lost interest in hits and using your unique skills. At most of the offers we got, you turned them down with growing repulsion. I asked if everything was alright; you said yes, and we left things at that. You stopped holding my hand when we’d walk down the street, or even as we sat on the couch in my apartment, where we were truly the only people that mattered.

I had to have done something wrong, but I couldn’t figure it out. I’m not good at reading people- you _know_ that- so imagine my frustration at not knowing what to do or say. Nothing. I had nothing to work with, and things between us slipped, got worse, got rough.

Remember the 10th of April? That morning, I went out to get you your coffee. The one with more cream and sugar than is edible, yet you somehow always managed to chug down with little effort. The door to your place was cracked open when I got back, coffee in hand. Something was wrong.

I took out my gun, and entered your home. The TV was off, the only light streamed through the curtains, everything was neat and organized and clean like always. But you weren’t there, and I was left alone with your coffee, still steaming hot.

My mind instantly filled with worse case scenarios. An enemy gang kidnapped you, someone forced you out and killed you God-knows-where. Something irreparable. Something where getting you back or seeing you again would be difficult or impossible.

Do you realize how thoroughly I tore up the city looking for you? How many names I took and criminals I asked and forced information from? How furious I was that I wasn’t getting any answers? No one knew anything about you, where you could be, with who. As far as everyone knew, you were still with me, even if most of the people in this town hated that.

I shut down. Of course, you wouldn’t remember; you weren’t here.

I didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t remember what it was like on my own- I threw those memories away in favor of making better ones with you.

Why was I so foolish? I was too naive to believe that loving someone so fully was a good idea, that it could make me a better person. Like that could ever happen with someone like me and someone like you and in a place like Los Santos.

At some point I turned back to your apartment and nearly blew it apart, looking for something, anything. Room by room, I searched every nook and cranny and drawer, and sought out something that could sate my distress. It took a couple of days and reaching a new level of insomia, but my search eventually succeeded.

There was a letter, folded and crisp, under the pillow I’d always used when I spent the night. 

“I need a change of pace, a breath of fresh air,” you wrote in your messy handwriting, “it’s not you- it’s just something I need to do on my own, for me.”

Remember telling me of your past of moving from city to city, never settling in one spot? It was in a one-off conversation one night- years ago- on the roof of my apartment complex; only now can I remember that it was a night with a clear sky tinted orange with light pollution.

All across the country, you’d lived and worked and thrived. You never did explain why you moved around so much. I’m more disappointed in myself than I am at you, in all honesty. I’m disappointed that I didn’t keep this in mind as I got closer to you and that I didn’t realize you disappearing again was a possibility; love is blinding, I suppose.

“I’ll visit someday if you’re still in town,” you wrote.

We both know that’s a lie. We both know you won’t come back; you never returned to a city before meeting me- why would that change? I could never change you like you changed me.

I just wish I knew why you left. What I did or didn't do or should have done. Why you felt I couldn't fix us or make you feel like you could stay. Why you decided to leave without warning, without a number to call you with, without anything more than your gun and your infamous purple hoodie.

I’m never going to see you again. I know that well enough.

And yet, here I am, a year later and still missing you, naively waiting for you to come in through the front door.


End file.
